


Kotobuki

by bible



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Gunplay, M/M, Methamphetamine, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: “You can’t get by on junk hands your entire life.”Kengo has dick sucking lips and a real penchant for licking them whenever he makes another shit hand and calls “Kasu!”





	Kotobuki

“You can’t get by on junk hands your entire life.”

Kengo has dick sucking lips and a real penchant for licking them whenever he makes another shit hand and calls “Kasu!”

Like he’s really doing something. Not that you mind. Neither of you are betting right now, just passing the time. Kengo’s mom is a hooker, but a good one. As such, she’s got a nice place. It’s tucked away in this expensive, green area of Kamurocho, a small square of brownstones. Her apartment sits right above this classy little bar, and the brick is covered with lush green vines that climb up and over the windows. They shiver in the falling rain outside.

You don’t ask where she is. Kengo just unlocked the door for you and said, _Here, you can hide here for now_.

He’s a good boy.

Even if he’s shit at playing Koi-koi.

“Hey, isn’t that what we always do?” Kengo says, gathering his ten junk cards, worth a whopping one point, and stacks them in his hand. He’s cross-legged on the ground, and he deals the card with grace. They’re an old stack, the Hanafuda designs weathered and faded.

You prop your head up on your hand and glare at him. Your eyes are the color of a milky clump of ice.

“Fuck is that supposed to mean?”

His cheeks go bright and his line of vision drops down to the stack as he shuffles it. He deals their hands without saying anything for a while, so you sit up on the leather couch, which gives a creak telling of its age (much like yourself), and you fling a throw pillow at his head. He whines, cutely, and rubs at his earrings nervously. They jingle like coins when he shakes his head.

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

“You sayin’ the Matsugane Family scrapes by on shit?!”

“No—”

You begin laughing; a deep, hysteric sound, and flop down on your back again. Throw an arm over your face. Your tracksuit smells like expensive, clean cologne, and rainwater. For some reason it makes you push your hips up, dragging your dick on the inside of the cloth lazily, because—fuck underwear, you know? Maybe you’re a narcissist, turned on by your own odor.

“You’re right,” you say, and peek out from under your forearm. Kengo’s watching you with that bulldog-ish, curious look. What a stupid, loyal little puppy. He’s a good kid, really.

A good kid with dick sucking lips.

“Stop calling ‘stop’ every time you make a shit hand just so you can win the round.”

“But then _you’ll_ win,” Kengo huffs.

“Listen to me, Kengo-kun. You gotta be braver. You gotta stop playing it safe. Raise the stakes, or you’ll never get anywhere in life.”

Kengo bites his tongue between his teeth and nods. They begin the game again. Since Kengo pulled the January card at first, he’s dealer. It’s a twelve-round game, and they’re on the final round. Eleven-nil to Kengo, because the motherfucker won’t do anything else but make junk hands and variety hands that are worth nothing, but still guarantee a miniscule win. It reminds you way too much of how the Family plays it with their deals.

It’s risky to bet higher, but you’re the only one doing it.

For Matsugane-san’s sake.

It’s kind of impressive how consistent Kengo is in scraping by with the lowest-scoring cards. It’s almost routine—surely Kengo can’t be _planning_ this kind of lazy, tiny win of his. Hanafuda cards guarantee some degree of randomness, and even so, Kengo can’t manage to lose heavily, or win extraordinarily.

You hate the mundaneness of safety.

“Kasu,” Kengo calls, yet again.

“Call koi.”

With some reluctance, Kengo sighs. His hand, decorated in a variety of rings like he’s some prince of Siam, comes up and scrubs over his face. And then he says, “Okay, koi.”

You grin, and quickly slap your red ribbons upon March’s highest-scoring cherry blossom card. You turn over the top card of the stack and snicker as you collect your August moon, matching it to the plain card. Kengo doesn’t manage to match anything. You snag the January crane right after.

“Sankou,” you call.

Kengo whines, but if you’re to stop here, you still only get ten points—ultimately lesser than Kengo’s previous eleven junk points.

“Koi,” you provide, and your dick gives another twitch when Kengo smiles, those plush lips too soft and chapped, giving the impression of a youthful redness a girl might have.

“How old are you, Kengo-kun?” you mutter.

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five, huh…” you continue slapping down card after card, making a steady hand of junk. “You’re pretty young.”

He looks up at you, doesn’t say anything. You really like Kengo’s quietness. He’s comfortable, stupid company—the kind of friend you can talk at, who nods in agreement and awe, who you can influence with your ideology. A pet, almost.

He exhales sadly out of his nose when he turns over the card from the stack and sees it’s the sake cup—which he can’t match anything to. But you can, and you set your chrysanthemum over it.

“Hanamizake!”

“Ugh,” Kengo huffs, pulling his knees to his chest and dropping his chin to them. “You win.”

“That’s right. Ten plus five times three. Forty-five to eleven.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have called koi.”

You snicker and watch as he collects the cards in a neat stack. “You’re lucky we aren’t betting anything.”

“If we were, I wouldn’t have even called it.”

“I guess the life lesson wasn’t so impactful then,” you mumble, and then sit up. You smooth your hands over your shiny, well-kept hair. “Do me a favor.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You said your mom is from Kyoto, right? Go check and see if she’s got Tsubaki oil and a wooden comb in her bathroom.”

Kengo unfolds from where he sits on the western-style carpet, and retreats to the bathroom. When he returns, he’s carrying the requested items in his hands, a look of confusion on his face. “Come sit beside me and comb my hair.”

“…Okay.”

Kengo never took you for the effeminate type—and he better not, unless he wants to swallow his own loose teeth—but style is important to you to some degree. You like looking good, smelling good, experimenting with products, buying everything in white.

Kuroiwa thinks black is best to kill in.

You disagree.

White is easier to bleach.

Anyway, your hair looks good, never out of place. You don’t want to be mistaken for some punk who can’t even do his hair. You like looking like you’ve got money, and you do. That’s why you buy Tsubaki oil, the kind geisha traditionally used in Kyoto.

The drag of the comb against your scalp is good, melodic almost. Kengo’s hands are skilled and neat, despite how someone might misconstrue him as mindlessly brutal. He’s your little wingman for a reason, and it’s not just the peach-colored shirt patterned with tinny dragons. (You privately want one of your own.)

Soon, your eyes start to droop from the sound of the rain, the rustle of your hair in the wooden teeth of a polished comb. Kengo’s breath spreads against your neck and makes you think of a lion prowling around meat, or a girl in front of a cock—both hungry things, desperate and fever-pitched. You have to press your wrist between your legs again.

On the precipice of dozing, your eyes quickly flutter open when the door swings and the knob connects with the wall. Luckily, it doesn’t leave a mark.

Your instinct is to find your gun, which has been tossed beneath the tea table. The myriad, tiny bowls are still littering the mahogany, half-filled with small pools of soy sauce, chopsticks thrown into polished, indigo porcelain teacups that seem expensive and meaningful to Kengo’s mother.

“What the fuck? What are you girls doing, having a spa day?”

You sigh in relief when it’s Kuroiwa who enters, in his police uniform. But Kengo looks confused, eyes darting to you for instruction. Kid’s an angel—so eager to cap a cop’s ass for him, so willing to please. You hook an arm around his neck and tug him to your chest.

“Jealous?” you purr. You can’t help but be curious as to his arrival. Kuroiwa stops by on occasion for more than just banter, and you really hope this isn’t one of his nights of brutalization and mania, where he intends to fight for fun, until your knuckles are raw, and you’re knocked on your ass. Or worse—that he’s arrived with bad news. You’ve become comfortable in the inaction, no matter how boring. You want to keep hiding until that fucking Okubo punk is killed, until Yagami’s dead or Ayabe’s imprisoned. Whatever it takes.

(Besides, you kind of like being waited on by your little pet, having your hair brushed, playing games all day. Gluttonous, perhaps.)

“Not at all.”

“Ease my anticipation,” you murmur, and pull Kengo impossibly closer, until your cheeks are squished together. Your high, weathered cheekbone presses in to his squishy, pliant flesh, “Hey, don’t you think Kengo has dick sucking lips?”

Kuroiwa looks blankly at them. Kuroiwa has a disturbing face; those soft, full cheeks and the weak chin give off an impression of the innocent, almost boyish. But those eyes are like glass-blown marbles, so empty and faded and dark. There’s a fog over his humanity, and in his pupils.

Where you’re sharp-eyed and intense, he seems… lost, almost.

When a man is on the edge of madness, like he is, you suppose a guy _has_ to be lost.

You don’t wear a police uniform over your criminality. You wear a fucking _daimon_ of your brutal association.

Kengo sputters. “Wait, what?”

Kuroiwa goes to the fridge and surveys the pickled vegetables, the eggs, the bottles of Coca-Cola.

“Where’s the alcohol?”

“We’ve just been going to the bar downstairs. Why are you here?”

Kuroiwa approaches, sitting on the armchair parallel to the two of you, an adorable yakuza couple. “Found another place for you and your goons to hide out. In the Champion District. You can continue making money there, since it’s a gambling den.”

“What’s wrong with here?”

“The boy’s not paying you, is he? Look, it’s just a suggestion. This place is still attached to Kengo’s mommy’s name. If _I_ found it this easy, imagine how little time it’ll take until a detective finds it,” Kuroiwa opens a battered messenger bag he brought with him and those empty eyes look up at you from where he tilts his head, a sort of Kubrick stare.

It reminds you of a scene from your childhood. You were on vacation with your grandfather. On a misty morning, you set out with him on a hike. The fog in front of Kuchinoerabu obscured it, and made the volcano look more like a mountain, backed by that blue, yawning sky. You had assumed the trip would have the quality of something still and plain, and when you learned that the mountain—so peaceful, so inactive—was potentially fatal when enraged, you became excited. Kuroiwa’s stare is malicious, lethal, but his mouth is smiling and pleasant, the kind of trustworthy and soft features a teacher might have.

Kuriowa is the Kuchinoerabu volcano. “I brought you something.”

He pulls a blown, clear glass pipe from the bag. It’s a neat, if amateurishly made piece of work. You give him a look of boredom.

“I don’t smoke marijuana.”

“That’s not what’s in the bowl.”

_That_ gets your attention, and you let go of Kengo to scoot closer to the police officer.

“Where the fuck did you get this?”

“Tojo Clan.”

“Which Family?” the Matsugane Family is more of a loan-sharking operation, and they handle a variety of casino dens—classic, respectable yakuza shit. They’ve never dabbled in trafficking. Drugs or otherwise. (Well, at least not until the assassination business came into play.)

“I’m not telling you. I don’t want you putting stock in any more shit right now. We’ve got bigger things on our hands.”

“Ah, let me branch out in my business ventures.”

“Make a Quickstarter, then,” Kuroiwa snaps, and puts the pipe to your mouth. He lights the end of the bowl, watches it mist, and snickers as your pupil swallows up the cold-grey of your irises. You feel your head go staticky, feel Velcro spiders pinprick all over your scalp, as though crawling down your neck. You’re suddenly hyperaware of the oil in your hair, the comb, and you snap your head to look at Kengo. Nursing the smoke in your lungs for a moment, you let out a long exhale of a white, chemical-aromatic cloud. Kengo sniffs the air, nostrils flaring.

You want to pierce the skin of his nose with another silver ring, like the ones in his ears. Outside, the sea-water green leaves of the vines tremble as though with premonition, and they catch the mid-afternoon light. You don’t think you’ve ever seen something so wonderful in your life. But then your gaze drifts back to Kengo’s ear, covered in shiny, glinting pieces of real silver, and you see the value in that jewelry for once.

“Can I have a hit, Hamura-san?” he asks, and god, isn’t that the cutest fucking thing? He’s so sweet, like he’s asking for ice cream, or asking for him to cum on his face, or something. _Can I have a hit of amphetamines, too?_

“No. You’re twenty-five,” you decide, handing the pipe back to Kuroiwa. You don’t need more than one hit; you know how this shit goes. “Too young to be throwing your brain away.”

“Yes sir,” he says, and watches Kuroiwa set down the pipe on his mother’s coffee table. He doesn’t question Kuroiwa being here. It isn’t _his_ place, and besides, he can deduce that he’s just some dirty cop from the looks of him. Obviously in cahoots with his aniki.

Then Kuroiwa digs in his messenger bag again, and retrieves two items. He sets them down on the table as well.

One is a red-covered, library copy of Yukio Mishima’s _Death in Midsummer_.

The other item is a Glock.

You giggle at the choice of items and then put an arm around Kengo again, tugging him close. “Stop, don’t freak the kid out.”

“He’s a man. Punk joined up with the yakuza, after all, didn’t he?”

Kengo gives a deep, respectful bow—or at least tries to when entrapped by your arm. You roll your head back on your shoulders and feel your heart start to race. The ceiling is popcorned. You want to scratch it all off, so you seal your eyes shut tight.

“Yes sir, I did.”

“So, you can hack a bit of _reading_, can’t you? It’s rather beautiful, really.”

“Don’t bore us to death,” you warn.

“I won’t. Boy—what’s his name?”

“Kengo.”

“Kengo-kun, come here,” Kuroiwa nods to the floor in front of him. You reluctantly let him go but keep a close eye on them. You have decided, after this hit, with the camellia oil still drying on your head, that you will not let anything bad happen to Kengo for as long as you live.

Maybe. Probably not.

Your heart is thudding in your chest like racehorse hooves upon an ochre track, the kind you used to bet on in your youth. First taste of excitement in gambling. It’s a refreshing memory and you watch with great pleasure as Kengo approaches with slow, swaggering steps. Trepidation masked in an attempt to look casual.

_ Cute, cute, cute._

“Kneel.”

Kengo kneels.

“Good boy. You know, you’re right. He _does_ have dick sucking lips.”

Kuroiwa leans back in the armchair, as comfortable as if he owned the home. There’s never a neutral location with Kuroiwa. Whatever room he enters, whatever crime scene, becomes his own. Even your own apartment felt like his property when he stepped foot into it.

He opens the book and flips through the crisp sheets until he lands a finger somewhere in the middle. “This is a story called ‘Patriotism.’ I think it’s the zenith of romantic love, and of loyalty.”

You squawk a laugh at that and earn yourself a beady glare.

“What’s so funny.”

Kuroiwa’s voice doesn’t pitch up in a question.

“What do you know about love, _or_ loyalty?”

“Are you calling me a traitor?”

“To the force, not to me.”

Kengo doesn’t know what you two are talking about, both of you using mincing, vague non-statements. He simply watches Kuroiwa with a placid, patient look.

“Maybe so. But I have my own reasons. Even so—let me read to you. I think you’ll enjoy this, Kengo-kun. Only twenty-five and so traditional, and I admire your loyalty to your aniki. Isn’t that a gentle, incredible thing to see nowadays? So many men your age join up for posterity. But you had no qualms with kneeling in front of me, because Hamura-san approves of me. You can even play an old man’s card game, can’t you?” he nods at the stack of Hanafuda cards, “My birth month is March. Aren’t the cherry blossoms so beautiful?”

“Yes, sir,” Kengo answers.

“I like to think the cherry blossom is the most important card. But the sake cup is, if you think about its versatility. I like to be versatile.”

“Not loyal?” you crow, propping your head on a mauve throw pillow.

Kuroiwa hums. He flips a few pages and begins to read somewhere in the middle of the tale.

“_The lieutenant’s eyes fixed his wife with an intense, hawk-like stare. Moving the sword around to his front, he raised himself slightly on his hips and let the upper half of his body lean over the sword point. That he was mustering his whole strength was apparent from the angry tension of the uniform at his shoulders. The lieutenant aimed to strike deep into the left of his stomach. His sharp cry pierced the silence of the room_…”

Kuroiwa’s voice was melodic, emotionless.

“_The five or six inches of naked point had vanished completely into his flesh, and the white bandage, gripped in his clenched fist, pressed directly into his stomach… Was this seppuku?—he was thinking. It was a sensation of utter chaos, as if the sky had fallen on his head and the world had reeled drunkenly_…”

He went on and on, reading the gory details Mishima’s talented hand had scribed. You aren’t a big reader yourself, but you know about Mishima’s own death, as predicted in this short story, committed years later after he penned it. You don’t get the point, but Kuroiwa always knows what he wants. And when he doesn’t, you indulge his mania, because he does a lot for you. Besides, it’s rather arousing, the viscous description that held no boundaries as to what could be written.

Then he goes on to describe the wife’s following suicide, committed moments after enduring the grief of watching her husband die.

“_Ever since her marriage her husband’s existence had been her own existence, and every breath of his had been a breath drawn by herself. But now, while her husband’s existence in pain was a vivid reality, Reiko could find in this grief of hers no certain proof at all of her own existence_…”

When the story was finished, the day had dipped into that pleasant lavender-dusk of an oncoming evening, and with the light rain still falling outside, the whole room took on a tone of the peaceful, after Kuroiwa’s droning voice finished reading on and on about the violence and sincerity of _sharing_ that violence.

He sets the book down.

“Isn’t Hamura-san a lieutenant, Kengo-kun?”

“Y-yes, sir…” Kengo struggles to keep the tremble out of his voice. He knows what this implies, so he just says, “I suppose that means I’m Reiko, huh?”

“Precisely. You may not be husband and wife, but you drank from his sake cup, and that loyalty will have to drive you to death. It is more powerful than any vow between two _breeders_. If Hamura dies, will you die with him?”

Kengo looks at you.

“Yes.”

You give him a tilt of your lips, a smirk of approval, but say nothing. God, you want to touch his face, map everything about him with your palms, smooth your thumbs over the curve of his eyelids, the soft bottom lip.

When you look at Kuroiwa, the same tactile neediness comes over you.

Kuroiwa picks up the Glock.

“Are you really willing?”

You sit up now from your comfortable slouch on the couch, trying to keep the ache out of a growing erection. You doubt you can cum, given the meth, but your cock doesn’t seem to care. “Hold on, man.”

“Shut up, Hamura.”

Kuroiwa steels you with a stare. You stay still where you are.

“Open your mouth, Kengo-kun… That’s it, part those pretty lips…”

Kengo’s mouth opens easily, and you see his brow set in a firm, determined hitch. But you can also see the fear. Beading sweat on the hairline, the wobbling irises. Everything is too sharp and intense in your vision, and when he wraps his lips around the muzzle, you feel like you’re watching something very important, in slow-motion.

He goes down on the gun like a cock and Kuroiwa flicks off the safety. “Look at him, Hamura-san. You’ve got such a good boy. He’s willing to swallow a bullet for you, just to prove himself. He’s one of a kind, isn’t he? You don’t get yakuza like this very often. They’re all weak, and fearful, and peacock around for show. This one’s special. This one’s idealistic. A real Reiko, right in your hands. Suck it. Go on. Suck it like a dick. I bet he’s put it on your cock, hasn’t he?”

“No—” you start.

“Sure, he has. I bet he loves it, too, because he exists to make you happy now. Your word is his life. You’re his _God_. I say that with a capital G. If you say white is black, it’s black.”

Kengo goes as far as he can take it and gags. His bottom lip rests right over the trigger protector, where Kuroiwa’s finger does not lay—it’s in a far more lethal position. When Kengo stills, throat full of the sharp, bitter taste of a weapon, his teary eyes keep contact with Kuroiwa’s.

“God damn,” you purr. Kuroiwa’s finger snakes over to pry at his bottom lip, rub over the spit gathering there lazily.

“That’s it. This—_this_ is the best kind of whore you can have, Hamura. A whore willing to die for you in the sluttiest position imaginable. Look at that, how he’s drooling on a gun like he’s posing for a porn cover. Isn’t that something? There’s no shame here. That’s a good thing, because a kobun should be willing to do anything to arouse his oyabun if the oyabun so demands it.”

_But I didn’t demand it_, you think, eyebrows hitched.

“Of course, some shame is good. You don’t want to walk around spoiling the reputation of your aniki. But to die acting like a slut for _him_? It’s a beautiful thing. A Yukio Mishima novel. A Takato Yamamoto painting. You’re so lucky, Hamura-san.”

He starts rocking the gun in short, jerky thrusts. Kengo keeps his teeth pulled away, and you don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to damage the gun, or if it’s because he’s worried that he might set something off if he obstructs the motions of Kuroiwa’s hand.

You dimly realize that the erection tenting your tracksuit is starting to spit out globs of precum.

Kuroiwa looks at it and smirks.

“You make your aniki so happy, don’t you? There. Give it one, long lap. Lick it like a dog,” he snickers, pulling the gun out of Kengo’s mouth. Kengo’s cheeks are burning with humiliation, his lips are wet and swollen, and his chin is slick. Feverishly, that red tongue falls out of his mouth and—

Fuck, he has a tongue ring, too. A silver stud.

“Cute little whore,” you hiss.

He licks the underside of the muzzle, slow and showy, arched up on his knees.

“That’s it, cunt. Look at you, worshiping death. You fucking—dirty—_pig_,” Kuroiwa hisses out, and pulls the trigger.

Although the safety is off, it’s bulletless. A lame click reverberates in the room, right under Kengo’s tongue.

Kuroiwa smirks and pulls his Glock away, wiping it on Kengo’s cheek. It smears with a silvery line of saliva. Then he stands up, nauseatingly well put-together. He looks so stylish, so professional, in his black suit, with his soft face and his neat hair, his polished shoes and his messenger bag. You're high, with a hard-on, and a gaping mouth. Kengo’s kneeling, red-faced with shame, and covered in his own spit.

Kuroiwa, the handsome bastard, shoves his book, the pipe, and his gun in the messenger bag and looks at you.

“Let me know if you’re interested in the Champion District hide-out. I’ll give you the details.”

His voice is so casual, flippant. Almost customer-service pleasant. Like he wasn’t just face-fucking your underling with a weapon.

“And Kengo-kun?”

“Yes, sir,” he rasps, voice worn but still respectful.

“Do something about that thing in Captain Hamura’s pants. I think he likes you.”

Kuroiwa gives a wink, those dark lashes kissing the top of his cheeks in a nauseatingly, boyish manner.

Then he opens the door and is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> "kotobuki" is a character on the sake cup card in a hanafuda deck, and it means "long life"
> 
> i really like the koi-koi minigame, if you couldn't tell
> 
> [take my carrd](https://bibles.carrd.co/)


End file.
